A Quote by Russell Banks
Driving home, it's all I can do to keep from crying. Time's come, time's gone, time's never returning, I say to myself. What's here in front of me is all I've got, I decide, and as I drive my car through the blowing snow it doesn't seem like much, except for the kindness that I've just exchanged with an old lady, so I concentrate on that.
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That is my home of love: if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged.
She used to drive me to clubs for engagements and when I was 16 I got a job presenting a TV show in Newcastle. My mum didn't really like driving, but she carried on. Once I remember we got stuck in a snow storm, but she carried on to get me there in time. She was an amazing, incredible person.
When you spend so much time away from home, travelling around doing things like this, talking about yourself too much, which is often very painful... So, to actually come home and just be amongst people who know you extremely well, who you can't pretend to be anything other than yourself in front of, is a relief really. It gives you a sense of who you are again. You just don't get any time at home... it's such an existence of feeling very unsettled and travelling around. It's great.
A car just gets me from A to B. I really don't spend that much time driving.
When I was 7, an old lady was driving too fast in my neighborhood and hit me with her car. I was running out of the house, and when I got halfway into the street, my mom saw the car and yelled for me to run back. As I turned around the car hit me, dragged me five houses down the road, and I fractured my collarbone.
Not only are we harried by time, we seem unable, despite a thousand generations, even to get used to it. We are always amazed at it–how fast it goes, how slowly it goes, how much of it is gone. Where, we cry, has the time gone? We aren’t adapted to it, not at home in it. If that is so, it may appear as a proof, or at least a powerful suggestion, that eternity exists and is our home.
Time is totally perishable and cannot be stored. Yesterday's time is gone forever, and will never come back. Time is always in short supply. There is no substitute for time. Everything requires time.
It was a bad one, the Winter of 1933. Wading home that night through flames of snow, my toes burning, my ears on fire, the snow swirling around me like a flock of angry nuns, I stopped dead in my tracks. The time had come to take stock. Fair weather or foul, certain forces in the world were at work trying to destroy me.
It was daylight and I drove everyone home - I was driving a Mini with John and Cynthia and Pattie in it. I seem to remember we were doing eighteen miles an hour and I was really concentrating - because some of the time I just felt normal and then, before I knew where I was, it was all crazy again. Anyway, we got home safe and sound, and somewhere down the line John and Cynthia got home. I went to bed and lay there for, like, three years.
I got married at 17, had three kids by the time I was 24, and have never had much time alone. I never had time to develop hobbies. Now, if I have nothing to do, I just find myself cleaning drawers incessantly.
First of all, I have to have trucks because I live most of my time on a horse farm, so I've gotta have trucks. It's in the northeast; I've got to have pickup trucks to move snow, number one. Number two, just if I'm driving, I don't have to have an SUV, but I want a big car.
I felt pain every night. After games, it took me a long time to walk to my car, and the driving home, it took me a couple of minutes even to get out of my car and extend my legs and just walk.
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